


Camelot Lodge

by ladymedraut



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, look it's got like everyone, the tags will be longer than the fic if i list everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23657887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymedraut/pseuds/ladymedraut
Summary: In which the annual extended Pendragon family camping trip becomes even more extended (and even more ridiculous) than usual...
Relationships: Clarissant/Laurel, Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian), Guinevere/Lancelot du Lac/Arthur Pendragon, Lot/Morgause
Kudos: 8





	Camelot Lodge

**Author's Note:**

> Am I coping with being stuck at home by writing an escapist camping fic? ...yes. Yes, I am.

_It’ll be fun!_ Morgause had said. _I know last year wasn't, but this will be different, trust me._ _It’ll be some quality family bonding time!_ Agravaine was fairly certain the only “bonding” that would be happening would be if Mordred finally got sick of Gareth waxing philosophical about Lancelot’s latest overly-dramatic bullshit film and gagged him. Honestly, if Mordred didn’t crack and do it soon, Agravaine would take matters into his own hands and do it himself. It was bad enough that he was going to be stuck in the family cabin with Lancelot all weekend, to subject him to Gareth's ravings for the entire three-hour car ride there was just inhumane. 

He was contemplating possible gag materials he could reach from the front seat without asking Gawain to pull over so he could actually get some p-cord and socks out of the trunk when his phone buzzed. Oh, thank god, they’d made it back into service for at least a few miles before the wilderness swallowed them again. He swiped open his phone to about seventy-two new message notifications from his father.

_Ag. Ag, I would like to apologize. Deeply and profusely._

_I should have stopped your mother._

_Or put Gareth in this car and gone with you. And driven very VERY far in the opposite direction._

_Ye gods I don’t know how much longer I can take this._

_Ag. Why is there no service. What have I done to deserve this._

_This is hell._

There was a short video clip of Lancelot and Arthur belting out something that Agravaine was fairly certain was from _Hamilton_ , though so off-key it was almost unrecognizable. Morgause could be heard yelling in the background for Arthur to keep his hands on the steering wheel, and Guinevere was muttering something about finding a way to hack into the bluetooth. 

_Hell, Ag. I have seen it. I have heard it. I have *felt* it._

_Get me out of this car._

And then, from his mother: _Don’t listen to your father, Agravaine. We’ll have a wonderful time at Camelot. And tell your brother not to drive like such a hooligan._

“Mom says your driving sucks,” Agravaine said to Gawain, surreptitiously trying to take a photo to send to Lot of Gareth and Gaheris squabbling in the backseat with Mordred stuck between them, legs folded awkwardly, glaring murderously at the world. “Oh, also this is your exit.”

Gawain swerved onto the exit ramp so quickly that Agravaine’s seatbelt locked, snapping against his collarbone. “You’re supposed to be navigating, Aggs! It’s your one fucking job!”

“Excuse you, I have two jobs. Navigating and picking the music. And relaying messages from Mom’s car, so technically that’s three.”

Gawain grumbled something unintelligible and reached out to smack his brother, mercifully keeping his eyes on the road.

"If you hit me again, I will set your tent on fire, I swear I will. Keep your hands on the fucking steering wheel."

On the one hand, Agravaine wished this car ride would be over already. On the other hand, once they got to Camelot Lodge—which, despite the fancy name, was just an old two-room log cabin his grandparents had built—he was going to be stuck with the rest of his family all weekend. And not just his brothers, but his aunts and uncles as well. And Galahad. He wasn't sure whether it had been Morgause's or Arthur's idea all those years ago to take a family vacation at the end of the summer before he and his brothers went back to school, but quite frankly he didn't care at this point. Every August since he could remember, they headed out to Grandma Igraine's old cabin for a weekend of "family bonding" and "relaxation." Yeah, right. Like there was any chance being stuck in the woods with his family was ever going to be relaxing. At least the cabin was too small for Arthur and Morgause to expect them all to pack inside like sardines—or piranhas—now that they were all more-or-less grown up. Hopefully this year he could find a place to pitch his tent far enough away that he wouldn’t have to hear Lancelot snoring.

Behind him, Mordred finally snapped. “Gareth! I swear to god if you mention Lancelot one more time in this car, you will have some very nasty surprises waiting for you in your sleeping bag tonight.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you so much as _think_ about putting spiders _anywhere_ near me, I will light your swim trunks on fire, so help me I will.”

“I didn’t bring swim trunks.”

“We’re going to a lake, Mor!”

“So? I’m not going to risk getting my swim trunks set on fire _again_!”

“I guarantee you Galahad has them, Gareth,” Gaheris said without looking up from his phone.

Agravaine glanced out the window and, by some miracle, saw an ice cream stand up ahead. “Take a right! Take a right!” he hissed at his brother.

“But that’s a—”

“I know! But it might avoid some bloodshed in the backseat. They're easily distracted.”

“Fair point.” Gawain swerved into the parking lot, just gently enough that it didn't lock Agravaine's seatbelt again, and the squabbling in the backseat was momentarily hushed as their younger brothers scrambled for their wallets. Agravaine still remembered an age when they had all fit rather comfortably inside Gawain’s beat-up old Subaru, back in the good old days when only he and his oldest brother had been able to drive. Now even baby Gareth had his learner’s permit. 

Agravaine shepherded his younger brothers to the festively-painted ice cream stand, keeping one eye on them for any signs of sudden movement and one eye on the road for Arthur’s car. Given Gawain’s respect for speed limits (or lack thereof), they were likely in the lead. Then again, if Arthur and Lancelot had swapped out driving at some point, the adults might very well already be at the cabin by this point. A quick glance at google maps said they had about an hour before they got to the lake and hell really broke loose.

“How much trouble d’you think we’d be in if we just, you know, scampered this year?” Gawain asked as he paid for the largest waffle cone Agravaine had ever seen. 

“Probably not enough to make it worth it,” Agravaine sighed. “Everyone would be pissed at us _and_ they’d just make us go again next year. But probably split us up and have half of us go with the old folks so we can't pull the same stunt again—and, judging by the texts Dad has been sending me, we do _not_ want that.”

“Well. In that case, good thing it's going to take me a while to finish this ice cream before we can get on the road again.”

“Good thing.”

* * *

There was just enough service by the picnic tables at the ice cream stand for Mordred to get a text through to Galahad. _How’s your car?_

 _Not quite hell,_ came Galahad’s immediate response. _Purgatory maybe? At least I don’t feel like I’m going to die with Morgan driving._

_Can’t say the same for Gawain._

_Lol. We might be a bit late, had to pick up the rest of the cavalry._

_The… rest?_

_You’ll see ;)_

Oh, that was not promising. Not promising at all. _GALAHAD. WHO THE FUCK IS IN MORGAN’S TRUCK._

_Sorry, I’m out of service._

_NO YOU’RE NOT YOU’RE FUCKING TEXTING ME_

Galahad did not deign to respond to that, leaving Mordred to sit over his cone of Death by Chocolate and stew. “Hey, Gawain, do you know who all is coming this year?”

His eldest brother glanced up from his giant waffle cone of mint chocolate chip, half his beard green with ice cream. “Well, I’ve got the four of you, Arthur’s got Mom and Dad and Guinn and Lance, and Morgan’s got Galahad and Clarissant. So that should be it? Just the usual squad. Why?”

“Galahad is acting suspicious. I think they’ve picked up more people.”

“Dear god.”

“My thoughts exactly. And now he’s not responding to my texts.”

“Well, we knew we were doomed,” Gawain shrugged. “Come on, finish your ice cream and let’s pack in. You know if we don’t get there at least in time to help with dinner, Aunt Guinn will make us do the dishes.”

Mordred's phone remained ominously silent as the five brothers piled back into Gawain’s car, though this time at least Mordred managed the minor victory of shoving Gareth into the middle seat. He rolled the window down and stuck his head out as Gawain tore down the winding country highway as Gareth launched into yet _another_ defense of why Lancelot's films were acclaimed masterpieces. At least the wind mostly drowned out his voice. Next year, Mordred was going to drive just himself and Galahad—and maybe Clarissant—and carpooling be damned.

They made it to Camelot Lodge without further incident (well, Gawain’s car might have taken a few knocks on the bumper, but that was his own fault for driving so fast down the dirt road leading up to the cabin) to find that Arthur’s car had beaten them but Morgan’s was, predictably, late. In hindsight, putting Morgan, Galahad, and Clarissant together in the same vehicle was a recipe for disaster, but it had seemed like such a good idea at the time, and there were very few people Morgan tolerated driving long distances with. The fact that Galahad was one of those rare few was a constant source of surprise for Mordred, though he was becoming increasingly certain that that tolerance was based primarily on the fact that they had the same taste in musicals and Galahad was actually very good at singing duets. Not that Mordred knew this from personal experience.

The muffled sound of a crash and several people swearing could be heard as they pulled into the driveway. Nothing immediately appeared to be on fire though, and no one ran screaming out of the cabin, so clearly it was nothing serious. 

“Right, then. Gareth, Gaheris, go help Aunt Guinn with dinner. Agravaine, Mordred, set up our tents,” Gawain said, opening the trunk and narrowly escaping getting crushed by Gareth’s precariously balanced duffel bag.

“Who put you in charge,” Agravaine grumbled, but he grabbed their two bright orange tents all the same. “Mor, give me a hand.”

“Mom did,” Gawain shot back. “Also, I drove. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go into the woods and scream for a bit before dinner.” He disappeared before Mordred or Agravaine could say anything.

Mordred and his brother looked at each other, shrugged, and started looking for a good place to pitch their tents. Camelot only had six bunks inside, which the adults had naturally claimed for themselves, though it was only a matter of time before Lancelot was kicked out to sleep on the porch once everyone tired of his snoring.The brothers had learned the hard way that Lance's snoring carried like you wouldn't believe—if they didn't pitch their tents upwind of the porch, _they'd_ be listening to him all night. And this year they didn't have Uncle Kay to enforce a demilitarized zone between Party Tent and Law-abiding Tent, so who knew what disasters were about to unfold there... Mordred sighed, poking the ground with his boots to try and find a spot that wasn't too muddy. At least this weekend would give him some interesting material for the creative writing class he had signed up for next semester. 

They pitched the two tents as far upwind from Camelot and as close to the lake as they could get. Agravaine suggested pitching Gareth and Gaheris' tent on a particularly soggy patch of ground before Mordred pointed out that then they would just have to listen to them moving it in the middle of the night, and the whole point in pitching their tents this far out was to be able to get a good night’s sleep.

“Fair point,” Agravaine grumbled, driving the stakes for Party Tent into the ground. "I wish Uncle Kay was coming this year. Do they expect us to just, like, keep our own peace or something? Have they met us? Also, nothing against Aunt Guinn's cooking, but I would commit murder for Kay's barbecue chicken."

"Maybe they think Gallie or Clare will play peacemaker?" Mordred scrounged through his bag until he found one of Gawain's hand-me-down flannels and pulled it on. It was ridiculously baggy on him, but at least it would do something to keep the mosquitoes off his arms. 

"Yeah, right. Like Clare would turn down the chance to create more chaos and Gallie is capable of intelligent thought when you're around."

"Exactly why I'm worried about what they're up to with Morgan—Hey. Wait. Galahad is perfectly capable of making intelligent decisions, what are you implying—"

"I'm just saying he's not exactly an impartial third party. Now, are you going to help me find some bugs for Gareth and Gaheris' tent, or—"

Mordred’s head jerked around at the sound of an engine— _two_ engines. He and Agravaine raced around to the front of the cabin just in time to see a pair of trucks pulling into the driveway, one black and well-kept and the other a red, rusting wreck.

“Uncle Kay!” Mordred yelled as a stocky, red-headed man jumped out of the truck that looked like it had seen better days. A taller, dark-haired man gently closed the passenger’s door as though afraid it might fall off if slammed too hard. “Uncle Bedivere! I thought you had work this weekend. So you’re Galahad’s cavalry.”

“Nope. We’re the cavalry.”

Mordred spun around to Morgan’s truck. Ragnelle, who had spoken, was grinning, flanked by Lynette and Lyonors on one side and Galahad on the other. By the time he turned back to Kay, Clarissant and Laurel were standing next to him in matching purple flannels, high-fiving each other.

“Mom’s going to kill you, Aunt Morgan,” Mordred hissed.

Morgan raised her brows and flicked her sunglasses down. “She can’t. I’ve hidden all the bug spray.”

Alerted by the commotion outside, Morgause stuck her head out the door. "Morgan? What have you done this time?"

Morgan grabbed her backpack and flicked Clarissant a salute with her hatchet. "I did nothing, it was all your daughter's idea. Do we need firewood? Silly question, we always need firewood. I'll go get to work on that." Morgan disappeared in the direction of the woodshed with a smirk.

Morgause took in the small army outside the cabin and sighed. "I hope you brought more food."

"Oh, we've got that covered. Lynette, Lyonors, give us a hand." Under the watchful eye of Kay, several coolers and bags of food were brought into the cabin. It looked like enough food to feed a small army. Which, Mordred realized thinking about what the reinforcements meant for the annual lake tournament at the end of the weekend, they kind of were. 

Clarissant glanced at Morgause, glanced at Morgan's truck, grabbed a pair of hammocks and Laurel's hand and made the wise decision to run off into the woods. Mordred had no doubts that they would be back in time for dinner after setting a sufficient number of booby traps that he and his brothers would blunder into eventually. 

"Let me guess, Gawain's by the lake." Ragnelle grabbed her backpack, a tent, and her guitar case. "I brought stuff for s'mores."

"What'll they cost us?" Agravaine asked, plainly suspicious.

"I'll let you know." Ragnelle grinned and headed off to find her boyfriend. 

"Easier to make a deal with the fae than her," muttered Mordred.

"You know, I'm not entirely sure she's _not_ one of the fae. And she _is_ in law school, which seems fitting..."

Mordred left his brother to his conspiracies and turned, at last, to Galahad. He was standing there in his old cargo shorts and tie-dyed shirt, looking exactly like the camp counselor Mordred knew he had been all summer. He even had that insufferably happy grin plastered all over his face. 

"So was this really Clare's idea, or was it yours?"

"Oh, it was one hundred percent Morgan's."

"She does like to watch the world burn, doesn't she."

"Come on, let's see the chaos."

He let Galahad take his hand and pull him into the cabin. Perhaps this year really would be better than the last, well, all of them. 


End file.
